“I can understand you not wanting to talk to me and I know this is crazy, but I need your help,” she said. “You probably still hate me for what I did and I don’t blame you…”
He could tell she was struggling not to cry.
“Peter, please help me,” she hissed. “I need you… I need you to help me.”
He always hated it when she cried. It tore at him like nothing else.
“You said your daughter was missing,” he prompted.
Miranda nodded reaching into her purse to pull out a photo. She slid it across the table to him.
Peter sat motionless, waiting for her to say more.
“This is my little girl,” Miranda said, wiping away tears. “Would you look at her please?”
Peter didn’t move a muscle. It was like he was made of stone, and that’s how he felt.
He slowly removed his sunglasses and folded them in his lap, his head bowed low in shame. The moment of truth had come faster than he had expected. What would she think of him when he explained what had happened and why he couldn’t help her? As he faced the inevitable, the noise level in the cafe seemed to reach the feverish pitch of a zoogenic stampede in his ears.
“She has your eyes…” Miranda said.
Peter’s head shot up to meet her gaze. But everything was just as it had been for the last 10 years–completely dark. But now every sound, except the pounding of his own heart, seemed to be missing as he struggled to comprehend her words.
What he wouldn’t give to see.
“Miranda…,” he sighed her name heavily, “I’m blind.”